


In the Fullness of Time

by MiaCooper



Series: On Heaven and Earth [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Book: Full Circle, Episode: s05e06 Timeless, F/M, Gen, Gift Fic, Grief/Mourning, Star Trek Bookverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-07 12:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12841500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/pseuds/MiaCooper
Summary: If there’s one thing they both know in any timeline, it’s losing Kathryn Janeway.





	1. Timeless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleObsessions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/gifts), [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts).



> To my wonderful, talented betas and friends: I wanted to give you both something nice for Christmas (despite there being no sleigh bells or tidings of joy in this fic). There are three things you both love - angst, Mark and the Beyerverse - so I hope you don’t mind sharing.
> 
> I also hope you don’t mind me messing a little with book-canon. You both know I hate 'Isabo’s Shirt' with a passion, so I’ve altered history as I see fit.
> 
>  **Disclaimer**  
>  Paramount/CBS own all rights to the _Voyager_ universe and its characters, which I am borrowing without permission or intent to profit.

I exist in two places: here, and where you are.  
\- Margaret Atwood

* * *

 

_**Chakotay - December, 2375** _

It’s taken months to steel myself for this meeting. I’ve obsessed over it for so long that my need to know has finally won out, but now that it’s time, I find myself wishing I’d resisted curiosity after all.  
  
He’s taller than I expected. Shoulders wide and spare, hair a distinguished grey that makes me feel stupid and vain for the unnaturally even black of my own. He pauses just inside the doorway, stamping the rain off his boots and squinting in the low light.  
  
I don’t raise a hand to call his attention; I want to watch him, unseen, for a few moments longer. Try to see what it is about him. What he has that maybe I don’t.  
  
Why she loved him.  
  
“Commander Chakotay?”  
  
Too late; I’ve missed my chance to observe him. Either the server showed him to my table without my noticing, or he found me on his own.  
  
“You are Commander Chakotay, aren’t you?”  
  
I get slowly to my feet and force my hand steady as I hold it out to him. “It’s … good to meet you, Dr Johnson.”  
  
“Mark,” he corrects, shaking my hand.  
  
The table is set with flowers. There are candles, too, but I asked the server not to light them.  
  
She’d had candles on the table, that last night. The light gleamed on her hair and cast inviting shadows across her body. My eyes were drawn to the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist.  
  
But then, her body had never been invisible to me, not even in uniform. Especially not in uniform.  
  
I watch Mark Johnson glance around the restaurant, a faint smile on his face. “This was Kathryn’s favourite place,” he remarks. “I haven’t been here since –”  
  
He breaks off and anger surges like a tide along my spine. “Since the first time she died?”  
  
“Since the first time I thought she’d died,” he says, evenly. “Yes.”  
  
He’s been through this before, I realise, anger ebbing into shame. It’s not his fault he’s dealing with it a whole lot better than I am.  
  
It’s not his fault I’m not dealing with it at all.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I realise he’s been watching me. “You must have loved her very much.”

* * *

  
  
“This could be our last night in the Delta quadrant, Chakotay.”  
  
Shadows and promises move in her eyes. I’ve been on my guard all evening; I knew just what she was planning from the moment I stepped inside her quarters. She wants to take the slipstream flight, and she’s using every weapon in her arsenal to garner my support.  
  
She doesn’t need my agreement to issue the order. The fact that she wants it must mean she’s nowhere near as confident as she appears.  
  
I keep my responses cautious, non-committal. If she wants to convince me, she’s going to have to work for it.  
  
And she does. She touches my face, my chest. She licks her lips and lowers her eyes. She’s glittering and careless, and so beautiful it makes my stomach hurt.  
  
“What do you think about my decision, Chakotay?”  
  
She’s not asking for my professional opinion. She’s asking for my acceptance. My allegiance.  
  
She will always have that.

* * *

  
  
“She was my captain,” I answer flatly.  
  
Mark Johnson sips his wine and watches me without expression.  
  
“I read the mission reports,” he says eventually. “The ones Starfleet declassified, anyway. You went through a lot out there.”  
  
“You could say that.” How did my glass empty so quickly? A server appears at my elbow to pour another.  
  
“You must’ve gotten to know her pretty well.” He settles more comfortably in his chair. “What was she like?”  
  
“You’re asking me?” I stare at him. “You’re the one she was engaged to marry.”  
  
“I never saw her in a professional capacity. And I imagine she was quite different than when she was out of uniform.”  
  
_Out of uniform._  
  
“She was always the captain,” I tell him. “Even when she wasn’t.”

* * *

  
  
“What will you do?”  
  
She’s shed her jacket and boots – always her signal that we’ve moved from professional to personal, although tonight the line is more blurred than ever before – and is draped over the couch, one hand propping up her head.  
  
“What do you mean?” I ask her.  
  
“When we’re home.” Kathryn traces patterns on her knee with a fingertip.  
  
“That depends on Starfleet,” I deflect, thinking, _and on you_. “There’s a good chance I’ll end up in prison.”  
  
“And if that isn’t an issue?”  
  
Is she holding her breath? It’s too dark in here to tell, and I’m not taking any chances. I’ve been wrong too many times before.  
  
“If I’m a free man?” I shrug. “There’s a war going on. I suppose I’ll fight.”  
  
She meets my eyes. “On whose side?”  
  
“Are you testing me, Captain?” There’s an edge to my voice.

* * *

  
  
“You’re angry,” Mark observes. “With her?”  
  
“Why would I be angry with her?”  
  
He takes a bite of steak, chews carefully, swallows. “Kathryn could be utterly infuriating. Boneheaded, arrogant, completely convinced she was right. Unwilling to listen to anybody else’s opinion.”  
  
“She was the captain,” I answer without inflection. “It was her prerogative.”  
  
“And she was magnetic,” Mark says. “Intelligent, curious, warm, funny … She could make you feel like you were the only other person in the world.”  
  
I try to ignore the haze across my eyes, but he’s far too sharp.  
  
“I’m guessing you know exactly what she was like.”

* * *

  
  
She shifts restlessly, and the light from the stars through her viewport illuminates her face. “It’s not a trick question, Chakotay.”  
  
“Well, what do _you_ intend to do when we get home?”  
  
“I don’t know if I’m done with space exploration just yet.” Kathryn’s lashes lower, her teeth digging briefly into her lower lip. “But mostly I was hoping …”  
  
This time I’m sure of the catch of her breath. Despite myself I lean imperceptibly closer. “What were you hoping, Kathryn?”  
  
“That there’s still something between us to explore,” she confesses in a rush. Her eyes lift to mine.  
  
I look for the tell – the faint flicker that will tell me she’s toying with me again – but it isn’t there. There’s trepidation and defiance and yes, unmistakably, desire, but I can’t help wondering how much of this is Dutch courage, or manipulation.  
  
Before I can decide, her fingers are lifting from her lap, coming to rest on my own hand. She’s trembling infinitesimally. It could be an act. If it is, it’s her best performance yet.  
  
“So tell me, Chakotay,” her voice quavers, “have I waited too long?”

* * *

  
  
“You’re right,” I tell him. “I am angry. With her, with fate, with the whole fucking Delta quadrant. But mostly with myself.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I knew,” I grit out. “I knew the slipstream flight was too big a risk. And I let her talk me into it anyway, because –”  
  
I break off, swigging from my glass. Mark waits, patient, fingers steepled.  
  
“Why did you let her talk you into it?” he asks when my silence grows so weighty it bows my shoulders.  
  
“Because I wanted her.”

* * *

  
  
I want to believe her. I want it so much I’m shaking with the wanting, but her timing brings a sour, discordant taste to the back of my throat. Why now? Of all times, why tonight?  
  
Silence extends between us, tense and blooming, until she draws a sharp breath and her fingers slide away from mine.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s quiet, almost breathy. Enervated. “I guess I am too late.”  
  
My hand lashes out and grasps her wrist. Her gasp enflames me, my control already frayed beyond endurance. I search her eyes for any sign of deceit and find only an echo of my own need.  
  
“Chakotay,” she whispers.  
  
“If we do this now,” I grate out, “we do it for keeps. No matter what happens tomorrow.”  
  
A shadow clouds her eyes, but I tighten my fingers further – a challenge – and her expression clears. “Okay,” she says.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
With the hand not held in mine, she reaches up and tugs the pips from her collar. They scatter carelessly on the carpet, gleaming faintly like stars. Then her fingers are spreading on my jaw, cool and insistent, guiding my face to hers. Her lips part against mine, her tongue tracing and exploring. Inviting. She moves across my thighs, both hands holding my face now. Holding me to her, as if she’s afraid she can’t.  
  
My hands tangle in her hair, grasp her shoulders, knead her breasts and hips, and she’s moaning softly, almost keening as she arches and yields. “Chakotay,” she says, my name reverberating against my own lips, “I knew we would be like this.”  
  
Elation swells inside me as the pieces of our uniforms drift to the floor and our hands shape and learn each other’s bodies, but beneath it, doubt lurks like a caged, uneasy beast.

* * *

  
  
For the first time in our acquaintance, Mark Johnson’s geniality is ruffled.  
  
“So you had her,” he states, then takes a big gulp of his wine.  
  
“You’re jealous,” I realise, and on the heels of that, “You still love her.”  
  
“I love my wife.” He grimaces. “But I’d be lying if I told you I don’t still think about Kathryn. She’s not an easy woman to get over.”  
  
I push my untouched meal away.  
  
“You don’t have to mourn her forever,” he says. “You don’t owe her that.”  
  
“How the fuck would you know what I owe her?” I ask him, smiling with all my teeth. “You know nothing about us. You don’t know anything about me. All you know is that I killed her. I killed them all.”  
  
His eyes are steady. “You know nothing about me, either.”  
  
I laugh at him. “You had a place in her life. She loved you openly, and you knew where you stood. She was loyal to you. And when it was over, you mourned her and moved on. You were blameless.”  
  
“Is that why you wanted to meet me?” he asks. “To size up the competition?”  
  
“Maybe,” I answer honestly.  
  
“What does it matter anymore?” He’s just a whisper from shouting, hands gripping the edge of the table as he leans in toward me. “She’s gone, Commander. There’s no absolute proof, there’s no body to bury, but she’s just as dead as she was the first time. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can start living again.”  
  
His anger deflates mine like a pricked balloon.  
  
“Trust me,” he says bitterly, “if there’s one thing I understand, it’s losing Kathryn Janeway. I’ve been losing her for years. Since long before she died.”  
  
“And you still can’t let her go,” I point out, and the words may be harsh but they carry no heat. Only a cold ache that settles into my bones like it’s never going to leave.

* * *

  
  
She shivers, and I pull the blankets up around her shoulders, cradling her against my chest.  
  
“Are you warm enough?”  
  
Kathryn nods, a smile curving her lips as her arms tighten around me. I press a kiss to her hair and hear her sigh, a sound soft with contentment.  
  
I’ve dreamed of this moment more than any other. More, even, than the moment there was nothing between us and we were joined, heart and mind and flesh. Or the moment she came apart in my arms, her plaintive cry echoing in the silent room.  
  
Just this moment, crystallised and perfect, that exists outside of space and time. This moment I thought would only ever exist in dreams.  
  
But in my dreams there was no need to talk. Everything we needed to say had already been said. Reality is not quite so clean.  
  
“I know,” she says, softly, before I can draw breath. “I meant what I said, Chakotay. Whatever happens tomorrow, this won’t change. This is for keeps.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
She stretches up to press her lips to mine – sweetly, like a benediction. “I promise.”

* * *

  
  
Rain sluices from the awning over the restaurant door, and Mark Johnson turns to me. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”  
  
I shake my head.  
  
He hesitates. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it does get easier. Just give it time.”  
  
“Time,” I echo, aiming for wry and failing. “The great healer.”  
  
He clasps my shoulder briefly. “If you ever need anything, you know where to reach me.”  
  
Mark hunches his shoulders against the deadening rain and hurries to the hovercar parked at the kerb. I watch him pull away and think about how I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to be.  
  
And about how if it was within my power, I’d take it all back in a second. Even if it meant that the forever she promised me never existed, except in that one single, perfect moment out of time.


	2. Full Circle

* * *

_**Mark – December, 2380**_  
  
The man shivering on my doorstep is almost unrecognisable.  
  
The last time I saw him – the night I brought him the news that destroyed his world – he was fit and straight-backed; he wore his body with an easy grace and his uniform with equal confidence. I see almost nothing of that man in him now. If it weren’t for that unmistakable tattoo –  
  
“Captain,” I recover my wits – and my manners – “come in before you freeze to death.”  
  
He nods, numbly, and stumbles up the few stairs, a flurry of snowflakes blowing in behind him. I usher him into the kitchen where he almost falls into a chair. His hands are shaking.  
  
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr Johnson.” He’s saying the right words, but they’re mechanical, lacking any inflection, as though he’s reading from an unfamiliar script.  
  
“Call me Mark.” I order two coffees from the replicator and slide into the seat beside him. “Here, you look like you could use this.”  
  
I pour cream and sugar into mine. He takes his black.  
  
“Thank you,” he says through still-frozen lips. “For the coffee, and for inviting me in.”  
  
“What are you doing here, Captain?” I ask, but kindly.  
  
“Chakotay,” he amends. “And to be honest, I don’t know … I think I just … needed to talk to someone who … knew her, and –” he breaks off.  
  
“Loved her?” I suggest.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Who is it, Mark?”  
  
My wife appears in the kitchen doorway, robe belted tightly and hair snarled with sleep. It’s not that late, really, barely nine o’clock, but Kevin’s been restless lately and Carla, who settles him with greater ease than I do, bears the burden of it.  
  
Chakotay rises from his chair. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Johnson, I didn’t mean to intrude. I should go.”  
  
“No, stay,” Carla says firmly, having sized up the situation at a glance, and the starship captain sits down obediently. “You look terrible, Captain. I’ll get you some soup, and then I’ll make up a bed for you.”  
  
“You don’t need to –”  
  
“Stop,” Carla orders. She places a bowl of vegetable bouillon in front of Chakotay and rests a hand briefly on his shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she finishes, pressing a kiss to the top of my head as she exits.  
  
“I shouldn’t have come,” Chakotay says, but he makes no move to leave. Instead he picks up his spoon and stirs dawdling circles in the bowl of soup.  
  
“Why did you come?”  
  
The captain rouses himself, lets the spoon lie. “Actually,” he says with a grim twist of his mouth, “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a real drink?”  
  
“That bad, huh?”  
  
But I get up and go to the cabinet where I keep the liquor, holding up a bottle of Glenmorangie. He gives a slight nod of approval. Seating myself again, I pour generous amounts into two thick-cut tumblers.  
  
He sips his quickly, hardly appearing to feel the burn, and I intuit that this man – whom Kathryn once told me rarely drank more than a glass of wine with dinner – has become familiar with the practice these past few months.  
  
“I think I can guess why you’re here,” I break the silence. “When was the last time you saw Kathryn?”

* * *

  
  
We’re both early risers, but last night she was up even later than usual, scanning mission briefings and updates from Deep Space Nine. And I’m glad, because it gives me the chance to watch her as she sleeps.  
  
She’s always beautiful. But in the morning sunlight, her long hair lustrous against the pillow and one delicate hand beneath her cheek, she’s exquisite. We made love less than five hours ago. But, knowing this will be our last chance for several weeks, I can’t deny myself the impulse to touch her again.  
  
I trace the sharp curve of her shoulder blade with the backs of my fingers, watching gooseflesh prickle in their wake. Her skin is so soft, the bones beneath it so deceptively fragile, that I am often gentler with her than she urges me to be. She likes it when I clutch at her, when I leave marks and bruises. It excites her, knowing she can drive me to the edge of my control.  
  
Kathryn murmurs, shifts onto her back. The sheet slips below her waist.  
  
I’m torn between staring, to commit to memory the image of her exactly like this – naked, lips parted, nipples flushed against the morning chill – and putting my hands and mouth on her to remind us both that she’s mine. _She’s mine_.  
  
Possession wins out.  
  
She wakes gasping, arching, her thighs already winding around my neck and her fingers gripping my hair. In moments she’s on the edge – I’ve learned, over the years, exactly how to please her – and her shaky cry so inflames me that I can’t wait a second longer. She welcomes me, arms wrapping me close as we move together, and I try to make it last, knowing this is the last time until she’s home again, but she urges me on with hands and lips and voice.  
  
After, I hold her close until she laughs and wriggles out of my arms, chiding me to get up and help her pack. Just before she dashes out of the house, as is her habit, she takes off her engagement ring and gives it to me for safekeeping.  
  
I put it in a velvet-lined box and shut it in a drawer, where it won’t remind me of her absence.

* * *

  
  
“Proxima Station.”  
  
“What?” The captain’s soft utterance drags me back from my daydream.  
  
“You asked when I last saw her. Eighteen months ago, at Proxima.”  
  
Something in the set of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, tells me that meeting was important for more reasons than it being their last.  
  
“I had such high hopes after that night,” he says, almost to himself. “I spent a year dreaming about Venice, about where we’d go from there. Together. And then you turned up.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate, but it’s all I have to offer.  
  
“The best laid plans of mice and men,” he says without expression. “I even thought about asking her to marry me on the Ponte degli Scalzi, but I decided to wait. I thought we had all the time in the world.”

* * *

  
  
The velvet box is a weight in my pocket that I’m uncomfortably aware of. Its presence shortens my breath and makes my palms sweat.  
  
She’s late.  
  
_What if she’s not coming?_ anxiety whispers in my ear. _What if she knows why you’ve asked her here tonight? What if she’s figuring out how to turn you down?_  
  
The restaurant door opens and Kathryn’s slender silhouette is framed against the backdrop of streetlights and lightly-falling rain. I sag in relief even as my nerves ratchet up again.  
  
“Mark, I’m so sorry.” Kathryn hurries over to the table and I half-rise. “Nechayev wanted to go over my report with a fine tooth comb. I didn’t even have time to change,” she gestures ruefully at her uniform, sliding into the seat beside me.  
  
“You’re here,” I tell her. “That’s all that matters.”  
  
Her beautiful face softens into a smile. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”  
  
I reach across the table and she meets me halfway, clasping my hand.  
  
“Kathryn, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while now,” I stammer. My hand is shaking as I dip into my pocket and flip open the box with my thumb.  
  
She looks stunned, her gaze switching from me to the ring. “Mark – is this…?”  
  
“Marry me?”  
  
Her hand slips away from mine to cover her mouth. “Really?” she whispers from behind it.  
  
“Really,” I confirm.  
  
She drops her hand to reveal a smile so dazzling I can’t breathe. “Yes.”  
  
I slip the ring onto her finger and she half-laughs, half-sobs.  
  
“I love you,” I tell her. “Forever and always.”  
  
In answer she leans up to kiss me, soft and ardent and lingering.  
  
“So, should we set a date?” I ask when my breath has returned.  
  
“What’s the rush?” She rests her head on my shoulder and smiles up at me, then splays her fingers, admiring the glittering diamond. “We have all the time in the world.”

* * *

  
  
“I suppose we’ve both learned that lesson,” I muse. “How fleeting life, and our hopes, can be.”  
  
Chakotay smiles without humour. “I told her once that she had plenty of time.”  
  
I glance a question at him.  
  
“It was after she received your letter,” he clarifies. “She said she hadn’t expected you to wait. She was thinking about her own situation. Whether to open herself up to a relationship.”  
  
“With you?”  
  
He laughs darkly. “That was my hope. But nothing came of it,” he hesitates, inclines his head, “almost nothing.”  
  
I wait. I’m good at waiting, and I know there’s more he wants to say. And I’m curious to hear it, even if it hurts.  
  
“There was one night,” he goes on, slowly, feeling his way through the words, “when she made me a promise. We were about to take our biggest risk yet – using untried technology to try to get _Voyager_ home – and deep down, I think we all expected to die. Maybe that’s why she promised. Because she thought she’d never have to pay up.”  
  
We sit in silence for a while, listening to the house settle and the ice crack in our glasses.  
  
“She made me a promise, too,” I tell Chakotay, eventually. “And she broke it time and time again.”

* * *

  
  
“So you’ll be back in six weeks?”  
  
“That’s the plan.” Kathryn hastily pins up her hair, each movement practiced and economical, as I watch from the bathroom door. Her bag lies open on the bed, neatly packed, awaiting only the toiletries I’ve been sent to gather.  
  
“Why are the Benzites hosting the conference, anyway?” I ask idly. “Surely there are more hospitable planets for most of the species attending.”  
  
She sends me an exasperated look. “Have you been poking around in classified files?”  
  
I smirk at her. “No need. The Questor Group is sending a representative, so we’ve officially been cleared to access the conference details.”  
  
“Oh.” She finishes applying her lipstick. “Is it anyone I know? The Questor rep, I mean.”  
  
I shrug noncommittally. “Here’s your bag of tricks. I’ll go put on some coffee.”  
  
We share a hasty cup of coffee and a perfunctory kiss, and Kathryn rushes out the door. Molly comes over and rests her head on my knee, whining softly.  
  
My own packing is more methodical, though less tidy, than Kathryn’s, though of course she has the advantage of long practice. Still, it only takes me an hour to lock up the house, drop Molly over to Phoebe’s place and make it to the shuttleport.  
  
It’s not a Starfleet vessel, so I’m spared the necessity of questioning over why I didn’t just catch a ride on my fiancée’s starship. I’m not required to dine with the captain or take part in briefings. That’s fine with me. I prefer to spend the meandering, ten-day journey reading quietly in my cramped quarters.  
  
My civilian transport reaches Benzar several days behind the _Billings_ , of course, but I’m not scheduled to attend my first conference session until tomorrow. I know Kathryn has attended a number of the sessions here, both scientific and diplomatic, and I’m hoping she’ll be ready for a break. And a surprise.  
  
The Benzites have converted their largest conference building to suit nitrogen-oxygen breathing species – at considerable expense, I’m sure – and all attendees are expected to stay there for the duration. Knowing Kathryn, she’ll have found a way to escape to her ship each night. But the dinner hour has just passed, so with any luck I’ll find her in the dining hall.  
  
I straighten my jacket, run a hand through my hair and make my way down to the lobby. To the left is the dining room, its double doors wide open, spilling noisily with the post-dinner crowd. To the right – where many people seem to be headed – is what I deduce to be the bar.  
  
I make my way toward it. Inoffensive music provides a backdrop to the clinking of glasses and chatter, and the lights are low and cast golden shadows over polished-wood tables.  
  
But there’s still light enough to see my beloved fiancée, tucked into a booth in the corner, her head bent close to that of a dark-haired man’s, her smile slow and knowing as his fingers slither beneath the short hem of her skirt.

* * *

  
  
I don’t tell him about that night, of course. Nor about any of the other flings I knew, or suspected, she had. They had little to do with us – or at least, that’s how I rationalised it.  
  
And besides, she’s dead. What good would it do to tarnish his memory of her? To knock her off the pedestal he so clearly needs to place her on?  
  
“It will get easier,” is all I tell him. “In time. I know it doesn’t seem that way now, but there’s only so much despair the human mind can take, and eventually you’ll learn to live with it. You’ll find a measure of peace.”  
  
He just looks at me, his eyes dull.  
  
“She was my peace,” he says.

* * *

  
  
_Hello, Mark._  
  
I have to pause the recording. My chest feels hollow, my heart scoured. I wish, briefly, that I’d never bullied Admiral Paris into releasing Kathryn’s posthumous message.  
  
But I need to hear it. In some ways I still don’t believe she’s gone, even though it’s been almost two years. Starfleet has just officially declared _Voyager_ lost, and I need to hear the message she recorded for me in the event of her death. I need to put my hopes and dreams for our life together into a box and close the lid, or I’ll never survive this.  
  
“Computer, resume,” I order steadily, and Kathryn’s image comes back to life, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.  
  
_If you’re watching this, I guess I didn’t make it. Hopefully I went out doing something good, something meaningful. But even if I didn’t, even if it was a pointless accident, please don’t be angry with me. At least not for too long._  
  
_I know it probably seems terribly unfair right now, but I hope you can find it in yourself to let me go. I want you to find some measure of peace, to move on with your life and be happy. And I want you to remember that I died doing what I loved, but that I loved you best of all._  
  
_Goodbye, Mark. Wherever I am, know that l miss you. And I’m sorry._  
  
The recording freezes, and I’m left with a still image of her in the uniform that took her from me. Her red lips, her high cheekbones, the strong jaw I loved to kiss; the coppery hair I used to take down, pin by pin. And her eyes, alive with intelligence and passion, the essence of her captured in one perfect, timeless moment.

* * *

  
  
If she left a message this time, it wasn’t for me. And it wasn’t for him either, this hollowed-out wreck of a man at my kitchen table. In a way I’m glad for him. I know what it did to me, to watch her telling me she was sorry she was dead. I’m not sure that Captain Chakotay could survive it.  
  
“I should go,” he murmurs. He drains his scotch – I’ve lost count of them – and scrapes back his chair.  
  
He sways a little when he stands, though I’m not sure if it’s alcohol or fatigue or that he’s just at the end of his rope.  
  
“Please thank your wife for putting up with me.”  
  
“You could stay,” I urge, suddenly feeling it would be wrong to let him walk out into the night. “There’s a bed made up for you.”  
  
He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Thank you, but I have to get back to _Voyager_. We ship out again in two days.”  
  
He’s already pulling on his coat and making for the door when I call, “Captain?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“If I ever knew her at all, I know that she loved you.”  
  
His face crumples and he draws in a breath as though I’ve punched him. But after a moment he straightens, smooths out his expression, nods.  
  
“Thanks,” he says. “For everything.”  
  
I close the door behind him and mount the stairs to my bedroom. Carla has fallen asleep with the lamp on, her face soft, dark curls tangled on the pillow. She has one hand under her cheek; a strong hand, capable and broad-fingered. It’s warm in the bedroom and she’s pushed the sheet down to her waist. The lines of her figure curve luxuriantly beneath her flannel pyjamas.  
  
I look at her and I think of another woman, one built more lightly, with sharper cheekbones and jaw and longer, lighter hair. And then I look at the woman I married, and I think about how lucky I am.  
  
Carla’s eyes are open when I focus on her again, and she gives me a smile heavy with tiredness. “Is Captain Chakotay all right?”  
  
“No,” I answer honestly, “but one day he will be. I know that for certain.”  
  
Her smile turns gentle. “I’m glad you figured it out,” she says. “Now, come to bed.”  
  
I crawl in beside her and pull her into the circle of my arms.


End file.
